


no more, no more, cruel world

by TheSkyrimLife



Category: Red Dead Redemption (Video Games)
Genre: Angst, Arthur Morgan Has Low Self-Esteem, Bisexual Arthur Morgan, Daddy Issues, Dutch van der Linde Being an Asshole, Heavy Angst, High Honor Arthur Morgan, Internalized Homophobia, M/M, Period Typical Attitudes, Period-Typical Homophobia, Poverty, Prostitution, Self-Esteem Issues, Self-Hatred
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-12-22
Updated: 2020-12-22
Packaged: 2021-03-10 23:53:40
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,336
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28235724
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/TheSkyrimLife/pseuds/TheSkyrimLife
Summary: Arthur Morgan, in the wake of a bad decision, makes another one.
Relationships: Arthur Morgan/Charles Smith, Arthur Morgan/Original Female Character(s)
Comments: 2
Kudos: 31





	no more, no more, cruel world

**Author's Note:**

> WARNING: There is a LOT of reference to domestic violence, prostitution, and other touchy subjects. Please tread with caution.

Arthur grimaces as the stench of piss and rotten food fills his nostrils. The old man with the pigs probably forgot to clean the stall again. Arthur usually can’t bring himself to care right now, but he’s all mad. And sad. Is there a word for that?

Smad. Arthur Morgan is very smad.

It’s late, far too late to be out, especially on the bad side of Saint Denis. You’d see a little old lady get stabbed, or some creepy feller tailing a girl on her way home. At this moment, Arthur is too smad to care, at least about that.

Once again, he fucked up his chances with Charles. Once again, he let Dutch’s words get the better of him. Charles asked him if he wanted to go hunting, which meant that they’d get it on in the middle of nowhere while he moaned so loud that God Himself could hear. That time, Arthur might’ve worked up the courage to touch his lips against Charles’ cheek. He’d almost said yes, but Dutch looked at him right then with daggers in his eyes. The memories of having his chin slammed against the fence surfaced, and so instead he spat on the ground and said that he had better things to do. Arthur had no idea how Dutch had picked up on the true nature of their trips, but it didn’t matter, because the look on Charles’ face almost broke him.

He ties Buck to one of the fancy hitching posts outside of Doyle’s, practically kicking open the door and stomping over to the bar.

Doyle serves him up his regular, three shots of whiskey and a beer. He grunts and tosses back two of the shots at once, one in each hand. “You ain’t in a good mood tonight,” says Doyle.

Arthur stares him down. He knows that he isn’t being awful kind right now, but he couldn’t give two shits. “No, I ain’t. What does it matter to you?”

Doyle looks a little surprised that he even opened his mouth, but he points to the corner, where one of the working girls is standing, hiding her face seductively with one of those imported Chinese fans. They make eye contact, and Arthur can’t help but shiver a bit.

“She’s a fresh one, I can tell. Any harlot new to the game is bound to be awful cute, but not very good at her job.” Doyle waves at her. The liquor is starting to kick in, and his eyes can’t seem to really focus all that well, but he sees her wave back, all flirtatious. He doesn’t blame her. The money that she makes off of one of these nasty idiots is probably going to be what feeds her come morning. “Anyways, I’ve had her, and she really defies expectations. She sucked me off good, and only charged four dollars! I don’t think I’ve ever found one with a mouth like hers. Really lifted my spirits after some fucker came in and swiped the tip jar that day.”

Arthur hasn’t had sex in a long time, much less a prostitute. He mostly feels bad for them, if he’s being honest. Most are young, with nowhere else to work, and they need money for their families. The only thing they can sell is their body, just so it can be treated like garbage.

But the booze must be messing with his head right now because he’s honestly considering hiring her. His last fuck was a week or so back, when he and Charles went out into the Heartlands to search for Bison, but all they really did was screw each other’s brains out.

Against his better judgment, he stands up, almost falls over, and stumbles to the space by the piano, where the prostitute is. He swallows hard, and he knows she sees it, because she giggles. “Hello, mister,” she says, her fan flapping back and forth. “You wanna have some fun? Four dollars a blow, and seven if you slide it in.”

The money from his hand transfers from his rough palm into her soft fingers. Their hands graze, and he shivers a bit. God, he really needs to get himself together.

She doesn’t seem to notice, though, just smiles and walks to the back door, gesturing to follow. He does.

The door squeaks loudly as she swings it open to the space behind the tavern. There are a few folks back there, passing an opium pipe back and forth. Their eyes are glassy, and they’re busy chuckling among themselves, so they shouldn’t be a problem.

She grabs his hand, and he feels his dick push harder against his pants. They walk together, stopping at an alley. He leans up against the wall, and she unbuckles his belt. It’s set gently on top of a crate, all his ammo clinking as it settles there. Her hands unbutton his fly, and he can feel them shake a bit. Something in the back of his mind is telling him that this isn’t right.

Her delicate little hands wrap around his length and stroke him a couple of times, and then she licks a stripe up the side of his cock. He gasps, and all of the sudden, it’s Charles, not this novice harlot, that’s treating him all nice. Charles takes him into his mouth, and he bucks a little bit into the back of his throat. He gags for a second, but recovers quickly, his cheeks hollowing out, making Arthur feel _so good_.

Arthur groans, his hands coming up to rub at his face. He grabs at Charles’ hair, wanting _more_ , but that’s when everything goes sideways.

He hears gagging, and then a whimper. His eyes fly open, and Charles-no, the poor girl, is crying. He lets go of her hair quickly, and she stumbles back, wrapping her arms around herself. It’s full-on sobbing now, and all he can do is frantically tuck his cock back into his pants. She looks so scared, and far too much like his mama.

The bile rises up, and he turns just in time to vomit to the side of him. He remembers when Lyle left for a whole year when he was five, and how she’d turned to selling herself. The men were always so _loud_ , and he’d hear her trying to shush them inside of the house while he played on the porch. She would wear a threadbare scarf around her neck for a few days after, even if it was in the middle of summer, just so he wouldn’t see the bruises. Arthur hates that it’s one of the only memories he has of her.

They couldn’t even afford proper food, with the money they got. She’d buy the bones the butcher saved for dogs because they only costed a nickel, and then make them into a stew with a potato and a few carrots. She got so skinny that her dress strap would slip off her shoulder, and he’d have to tug at her leg to tell her so.

In August, the coal mine dried up, and no man had money to spare for them. She’d walk five miles to the nearest train station, carrying him all the way, so that he could sit in her lap while she begged for money. Nobody would toss coins into her hand, not even the few rich folks who surely had plenty to spare. Arthur’s ribs were showing, and his mother’s hair was clumpy and matted, but they still never gave. Most days, they’d go home hungry.

He isn’t thinking when he pulls out fifty dollars from his wallet and tosses it at the girl’s feet. She stops crying for a second and stares at him dumbly. He guarantees that this has never happened to her before. “I don’t want your charity.”

Part of Arthur is asking him what the hell he’s doing, but he tosses an extra couple bucks down, along with some change from his back pocket. “You don’t want it, but you clearly need it.” He grabs his gun belt and his hat. “Don’t leave all of that money to get taken by someone who don’t deserve it.”

She looks at him curiously. “Like who?”

“Who what?”

“Who wouldn’t deserve it?”

He scratches at his beard and turns away from her. “Me.”

Arthur finds Charles on the edge of camp, working at one of the little sculptures he carves out of bison horns. He doesn’t look when Arthur leans against the tree in front of him and lights a cigarette. “‘M sorry.”

“I’m not in the mood to suck you off right now, Morgan.” The words hit harder than they should, but he’s in no place to complain. What he said probably hurt more.

An uncomfortable silence sits there for a few seconds, but it feels like an eternity. Arthur isn’t sure what he should say, or what he should do. Maybe it’s impossible, like Mary or Eliza. Maybe he won’t ever really be happy with somebody. Maybe he’s just supposed to be alone.

A man came over to their little shack of a house once. It was kind of odd, since he was black, and they rarely had folk like him this far out from the cities. He said that he was a bounty hunter, looking for Lyle Morgan. Mama said that he’d run off to God knows where and that they hadn’t seen him in close to a year. The bounty hunter left, and Arthur didn’t think he’d see him again.

But he came back a week later, with some flowers for Mama and chocolate bar for him. He said his name was Isaac, and he was a free man who’d run away from a Lemoyne plantation ten years ago. There wasn’t really any work for him up north, so he’d started picking up bounties. His mama’s new job paid all right, so she had a bit of stew to spare for him. Isaac ate very neat, he remembered, far more polite than his father. He’d put a napkin in his lap and wiped the corners of his mouth carefully.

Isaac came back every Saturday evening for the next month, sharing their supper and spending the night. He’d go to church with them in the morning, but leave before noon, handing him some candy or a toy and Mama some money. This went on for a good few months or so, and Mama started getting more and more excited every Friday night. She’d begun to slip him a small kiss on the cheek when he left, something that she’d never done for Lyle.

His father had shown up one Saturday morning, barging in and expecting to be treated with the respect of a king. He’d seen the new dress Mama bought with Isaac’s money and gotten angry, calling her awful names and shoving her around the kitchen. Isaac walked in right before Lyle was about to slap her, and, being a damned good man, told his father that he was a no-good bastard.

Arthur was just six years old when he saw a man die for the first time. He was so close that splatters of blood ruined his new shirt, and a chunk of brain hit his shoulder. His ears were ringing from the gunshot, and he couldn’t hear Mama scream, or Lyle start chuckling. All he could do was stare at was used to be Isaac, his head nothing but mush.

That night, Lyle had gone out drinking, and Mama stayed home and cried and cradled Arthur close to her. “Don’t ever let fear get in the way of love, Arthur,” She’d said. “If there’s danger, take who’s closest to you and run.”

Charles has treated him right, with nothing but kindness. Never a cruel word, not even a glare in his direction. He’s never passed a beggar on the streets of Saint Denis without at least acknowledging his existence with a wave. If there’s anybody he wants to run away with, it’s him.

Arthur clears his throat. “I had a Mama, once. She’s been dead, shit, almost thirty years now.” He laughs, but there’s no joy in it. “She loved a man, and she didn’t run away with him like she should’ve. She told me not to make the same mistake.”

Arthur hasn’t cried since Eliza and their Isaac died, and that was a long, long time ago. Now, though, he feels a tear rolling down his cheek, getting caught in the bristly hairs of his beard. “I’ve done many foolish things, Charles Smith, but getting caught up with you sure ain’t one of them.”

There’s nobody awake around Shady Belle right now, spare some crickets and maybe a bullfrog, but it feels like everybody is watching them as they lean in. Arthur and Charles lock eyes, staring at each other for a moment. It feels so terrifying, but then their lips touch, and Arthur’s heart feels like it’s on fire. The back of Charles’ finger strokes across his cheek, and his entire body shudders in response. It’s been _so long_ since somebody has touched him so tenderly, and he completely forgot how good it feels.

They break apart, and Charles puts his hand on Arthur’s knee. He looks concerned, almost sad. “Was that alright?”

It doesn’t feel like Arthur’s brain is working anymore. That kiss must’ve made it short circuit, he’s sure. He wants to say that it was the best thing ever, that he would never not be okay with Charles kissing him, but all that comes out is a nod.

Charles smiles, and Arthur practically swoons. “Let’s leave Sunday. I’ll talk to the girls, you think you can convince John?”

Arthur’s hand comes up and traces Charles’ mouth. “Anything for you, darling.”

Mama’s voice echoes through his head, and for the first time in a long time, he doesn’t flinch or shy away from it. _You’re a good man, Arthur._

He ain’t good, but he ain’t bad, either, and that’s okay.

**Author's Note:**

> ASDLKFJSDFOIOJOISD
> 
> Sorry, just had to get that out of the way. It's been forever since I've written, and I hope all two of you who have read my shit before are doing well. Pandemic, huh? Who would've thought?
> 
> Anyways, here's a few things:
> 
> The reference to Arthur having his chin bashed against a fence was me trying to theorize how he got that scar on his chin.
> 
> This work's title comes from "Cruel World", sung by Willie Nelson.
> 
> I hope you enjoy, and don't forget, I feed off of comments, so please leave one. Happy holidays everybody!


End file.
